Welcome....

The American West figures strongly in Andrews' oeuvre and gives rise to her most lyrical work. Her first collection of poetry in thirty years, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Order the Collection here. Contact her on Facebook as Jenne R Andrews and Twitter @jenandrewspoet. e-mail: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Publication Announcement!



Dear Friends:

As noted above, I am in the throes of the pre-publication ordering period for my first collection in thirty years, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press. Without pre-publication orders there will be no press run, and therefore I hope you will add this, my offering to the world of fifteen comparatively recent poems, to your library.

My friend Samuel Peralta, a renowned poet in his own right, has paid me the highest of compliments:  "If you care about poetry, buy this book!"

Cover art by John Sokol, my favorite among his mixed media pieces, "Mirage."

Jim Moore, Invisible Strings, Graywolf Press, and Dawn Potter, Director, Conference on Poetry and Teaching, The Frost Place, How the Crimes Happened, CavanKerry Press, have lovely things to say about my work on the back cover of the collection.

Please visit the chapbook's site and click on the link to Preorder Forthcoming Titles from Finishing Line.  I will periodically post work from the collection there and new work from me is coming soon to La Parola!

Here is a poem from Blackbirds Dance...

According to Luke

for Tom Wayman

I heard the angels say
Fear not, but I fear
all things in all ways.
I fear the brittle lassitude
of my hands, the encroaching
frost over the mind,
the dark glass one candle
can’t pierce.
I fear another day, summer’s
greenness, the threat of new
blackbirds,
their garnet wings
among the cattails.

I quake, at night—
my heart’s staccato code to God.
I fear dust, fate, my own face,
my sins,
the flash of homemade bombs,
hollow words,
the imperatives of silence.

I am afraid
for my remaindered dreams,
my lost years,
the knot in my thigh, the lump
in my throat,
that I may never again call out
a name, my eyes to another’s--

I shrink from death,
heights, cold and deep water,
my flagging soul, my art,
my brother,
limping on like a beggar
through powdering leaves,
while all volition fades
to a spent seraphic light
on the far horizon.



copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013


1 comment:

Maureen said...

I've pre-ordered a copy. Looking forward to its receipt.

This is a special collection for so many reasons. Wonderful blurbs!